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by TheEeveeTamer



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (Kind Of) Porn With Feelings, Alpha!Rodrigue, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, But Also Birth Control, Cheating, Love affairs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega!Lambert, Pregnancy Kink, The Inherent Homoeroticism of Faerghian Kings and Their Retainers, Tho Rodrigue Thinks It's Just One-Sided Pining, Unresolved Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22447060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEeveeTamer/pseuds/TheEeveeTamer
Summary: A nook in the library, a bed in the capital, a tent in the woods… These were the places he’d called home over the years, because home wasn’t a place for him. It was a person.
Relationships: Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning, I wasn't sure if I wanted to mark this as Explicit, or if it was fine staying at just Mature. Let me know if you think it needs to go up a rating.

He senses it the moment they return from scouting. There is a tinge of something sweet in the air, and the king is restless, agitated. Rubbing his thighs together when he thinks no one is looking, when he thinks his cape hides him from the rest of the men. He’s not certain his liege realizes what he does, the obscenity of all, but Rodrigue knows. He knows because he watches. How could he not? They are best friends, sword and shield, bedfellows, lovers...

… No, not that. He takes a moment to backpedal on his own thoughts. Lover is a dirty word in their vocabulary. So loaded with weight and emotion he dare not speak it into the air. So he doesn’t. He holds it close inside of his heart, in the pit of his stomach, where it belongs. Hidden.

Instead he contents himself with sharing beds when needed, when his king falls into heat and an Alpha is necessary to sate his worst urges and protect him from certain doom. It is a role he’s played many times, and one he is sure he will play many times more.

He is not surprised when tonight turns out to be one such night. He knows for sure when his majesty is absent from the mess tent at dinner, because his typically ravenous liege was never hungry during a heat. Of course… He had yet to pass a campaign in peace, why would this one be any different?

Another night. Another tent. Another war within himself.

He is wide awake under his tangles of blankets and sheets. Too warm for the current environment, but they will be necessary in a moment. His clothes, too, are the same. Thick and snug, far beyond anything he would have need for in the early spring.

There is a rustling outside and he’s at his feet in a moment, but there is no need to panic. The steps are distinctive. Plodding and heavy, not at all indicative of the size of the man they belong to, with the kind of uncoordinated grace that was too beautiful to be real.

The way he drifts into the tent is mesmerizing. Erotic. The moonlight frames his silhouette perfectly as he pulls back the flaps and enters, the scent of pre-heat sticking stubbornly to his skin and hair. Rodrigue cannot see him, but he knows that he is not clothed. The trip between their tents was negligible, and the articles would only end up ripped and soiled on the ground. Not a fate the king’s finery deserved. The only shred of decency comes from the cape clutched tightly around his shoulders, but that, too, drops to the floor as soon as the canvas swishes shut and they are alone in their cocoon of darkness, safe from the prying eyes of the outside world.

They waste no time. They cannot afford to. The blonde approaches him like a cat stalking prey and, with no hesitation, he tears the garments straight from his body with a force that steals Rodrigue’s breath away. They come off his person cleanly, as though they were designed solely for this purpose. No matter, he has replacements. He is far more concerned with the man settling into his cot.

Messy sheets and blankets are strewn on the floor around his bed, still warm from when he’d been lying on top of them just moments prior. Lambert buries his nose in the soft furs and sweaty shirt shreds and he hums in approval as he settles in.

The thicker the cloth, the better the scent holds. He’d learned that back in his academy days.

Now his little space no longer feels cold nor empty as his king fussily arranges the materials in a way that makes Rodrigue’s heart flip dangerously. Seams and strings are tucked neatly around blankets until there’s enough room for two. Warm and inviting, if a little sparse.

He does not move, even though he is bare, cold, and, quite frankly, beginning to feel ridiculous standing in the middle of his own quarters like a stranger. But he can’t imagine wanting to leave his place, not until those icy blue eyes meet his, visible even in this low light, and his liege beckons him into his little collection of furs and torn cloth with a nod of his head.

Clambering into his nest is a gift he wouldn’t exchange for anything. Rushed and hurried as its construction might have been, it was an honor. A privilege. One he did not take lightly.

He need not push, just a gentle nudge at his knees and pale legs open before him to make room for his body. His king lies back, one arm stretched over his head, bare chest open for his fingers to graze across. Exposed. Vulnerable. He marvels as his digits worship the soft skin, scarred, yet smooth and hairless. The lines are familiar to him now, perhaps too familiar. Even in the dark he can trace every bump, blemish, and line, but a heel prods insistently at the small of his back and he abandons the quest in favor of satisfying.

He mewls too prettily under his hands, spreads himself and arches his back too perfectly. Sliding between his legs is like coming home, because home for him has never been in Fraldarius territory. A nook in the library, a bed in the capital, a tent in the woods… These were the places he’d called home over the years, because home wasn’t a place for him. It was a person.

It was rare that they were this close. Matters of propriety prevented it, but he savored times like these. Times where he was close enough to count every beautiful, blonde lash on his eyelids, or the flecks of cyan in his irises, or the wrinkles slowly forming on his youthful face. Times where, if he so pleased, he could pepper kisses along that furrowed brow without fear of judgement or scandal.

In fact, he does just that. The effect is immediate: Lambert relaxes beneath him for the first time in a long time.

It was too easy to get lost, gazing down at him like this. His messy blonde hair is knotted and splayed in a halo around his head on the pillow. Mouth slightly open, panting like air was a precious, finite commodity, and his lungs are starved. Rodrigue wants to steal it from him. He wants to bend down and suck every last particle of oxygen out of his lungs, selfishly but oh so deliciously, because then he would get to see him sputter and gasp and smile as his lips were released.

But there is no time for that. The pheromones floating up to his nose thicken, fragrant and insistent, and the squelch of fingers slamming into his wet hole resounds obscenely in the quiet air.

_ “Rodrigue..!”  _ He whines his name impatiently. He’s waiting for him, open, dripping, desperate, one hand between his splayed legs to take the edge off. Beckoning him. A silent plea. He’s begging. The King does not beg, but Lambert does.

Rodrigue is helpless before him once more. If he tricked himself then perhaps, he thinks, he could die happy… But he’s long since learned to recognize the difference between love and need. They have never shared the former.

He doesn’t care. He mouths at scarred skin and pistons his hips eagerly, because if this is all he’s to have then he might as well enjoy it. The marred flesh on his neck is easy enough to avoid, but impossible to ignore. It leers at him. Taunts him. A permanent blight against his pride. He moves a little lower to leave a mark of his own. It breaks skin. A pathetic imitation of two people in love, binding themselves together eternally… But it is all he has. He pulls him upright into his lap instead, because that way he doesn’t have to look.

The way he sags against his shoulder, sweaty and spent and oh so beautiful has his heart doing somersaults. His inner beast roars in approval. Nothing lovelier exists in this world, he thinks, than his Lambert, boneless and shuddering around his knot.

_ “You are going to look so good…”  _ He growls, instinct overriding his tenuous control on sanity, one hand threading its way through the back of Lambert’s hair to tug his head so the side of his neck -- the side unsullied by teeth -- is exposed. He marks that, too, before he continues.  _ “So good… Carrying my pup on your hip.” _

_ “P-Please!” _ His partner groans in response, the knot locking their bodies together a silent promise between them.  _ I want that, too. _

He doesn’t say it, but it is in his voice, his movements, his scent, his everything.

The spell is only broken when he pulls away, and those bright azure eyes are hazy and half-lidded. Another reminder that this isn’t real. He opens his mouth too obediently when asked and swallows the food Rodrigue knows he is not hungry for down too quickly before they’re back to their song and dance.

That is the last thing he remembers clearly. He wishes -- Goddess, does he wish -- that he could recall every moment, but ruts are funny like that. He only knows that days have passed because they’ve slept and they’ve eaten whatever food was brought to his tent by whichever unfortunate squire pulled the short straw that day.

Three days of rutting like animals, of whispering comforts and filthy words alike that they could never mean. Eating, sleeping, falling, recovering, and then repeating. Whatever it took to satiate the beasts inside of them, because that’s all they are, after all. Beasts. Creatures looking for relief, whenever, wherever, and with whomever they can find it. He is simply a convenience. If they had been in Fhirdiad for this heat -- any heat, really, but there was always a campaign to run -- then surely the Queen-Consort’s bed would not have stood empty for so many years. And If he knows differently, if his heart yearns for the opposite, then that, too, is a secret he keeps inside. It is easier that way.

In this final day the reek of heat abates somewhat, though it can be hard to tell in such an enclosed space. The motions are no longer frantic or needy, but lazy and slow as his Omega quietly chases that final orgasm. Upright, arms loosely encircling his neck for support as Rodrigue guides his exhausted body with his hands.

They’re almost done. Hormones finally satisfied, instincts finally satiated. Lambert cries out, but the sound is quickly muffled when his teeth sink into Rodrigue’s collarbone, just below his own mark. His own shame. His own burden to bear.

When he falls limp for the last time, Rodrigue helps him onto his back. Blue eyes drift closed before his head touches the pillow; His signal that things are finally at their end.

These are the worst moments: when Lambert is collapsed from exhaustion, but he is too wired to do the same. He spends this night like he’s spent all the others. Ever vigilant, one hand placed protectively over his stomach, peppering light kisses over his sweaty shoulders and neck. Anything to draw out the last of that cloyingly sweet scent.

There in the dark, with no one listening, he could indulge himself in such things… But that was the night.

Things were different in the cold morning light.

They were different.

They always had been.

When they’d skipped class and he’d kissed his lips swollen and red, they had always straightened their uniforms before they returned to the dining hall. They’d been clumsy back then, but those hesitant, inexperienced sounds he’d elicited from his future liege had been just as beautiful. Even as he puzzled out how to twist his fingers just so, an exploration that was more awkward than sexy, but necessary if he was to learn how to make his knees fall weak beneath him. He still remembers the first time he’d gotten it right because they’d stumbled spectacularly. He’d been leaning in just a little too close, and when Lambert grabbed at his shirt for purchase they’d both ended up on the floor of his dorm room, sweaty and laughing.

He’d thought he might confess is undying affection then and there, but one of the monks had heard the crash and banged on the door to ensure that Rodrigue was unhurt, and the moment was gone. They left separately, after Lambert quickly explained away the torn shirt and the breathlessness as a nasty fall, and suddenly Rodrigue was glad he hadn’t said anything of his feelings.

A bitter note to sour an otherwise happy memory, just like always. All of the dorm rooms, nooks, beds, closets, and tents, all punctuated by that same bitter note, because all of those memories ended with the same thing: Lambert always left.

So when this morning comes, Lambert pulls himself out of his arms easily, just as he always has. His liege brews his murky brown tea, the one that always made his instincts growl in disapproval, and he is only on his way when the cup sits empty on the floor. When all of those whispers and promises are left dead in the air. When they are the King of Faerghus and his Right Hand once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Help, these DILFS are quickly becoming my Ride or Die ship for Three Houses and they don't have any content! Thanks, random Tumblr anon that put this idea in my head.
> 
> And yes, in case you were wondering, Dimitri does eventually go on to be their illicit love child/accident baby. Poor kid just can't catch a break.


End file.
